Or a Catastrophe and Day 11

Prompt: Or

dog-sweet-eyes

Today, as I was taking a break from NaNoWriMo,  I asked my dog, “Is what happened in the US election a disaster, or a catastrophe?”

He looked back at me with his puddly brown eyes. They said, “What election? I feel fine. Why do you look unhappy? Can I have a treat, or a scratch behind the ears? I love you. When’s dinner?”

Why doesn’t everyone have a dog?

Something Something and Day 9

Prompt: Primp


It is Day 9 of National Novel Writing Month, and the Daily Post prompt for this day is the word primp. Primp is not the word of the day, or the thought of the day, however. There simply are no words or adequate thoughts. Instead, may I present a few of my favourite cartoons:

cartoon-trump-paul-noth


cartoon-trump-david-rowe


cartoon-trump-election-lisa-benson

Deep breaths,

~~FP

What Would Marcus Do

Prompt: Luxury

tropical-cocktail-elena-elisseeva

Virginia had stopped mentioning it, but Cash knew she would respect him a lot more if he earned money, instead of spending it. Most of it was his own money, to be sure, but Virginia was old-fashioned that way. She believed in tired old male stereotypes, Cash thought, even though she declared herself a feminist.

So he decided to start a luxury private cruise business. He was good at boats, as long as they were crewed, good at luxury, and liked cruising. What could go wrong?

He wished with all his heart that his friend, Marcus, was not in prison for trying to murder his wife, Cash’s sister, because Marcus would be very good at organizing something like this, and would be a lot of fun to work with too. But no, Marcus was despicable, right? Almost killing Cash’s sister in a fire that he set. He claimed innocence, but no one believed him. Cash wanted to believe him, but then, he was Marcus. Marcus always had a thing about limits.

The very first cruise set sail on a brilliantly sunny, still morning, in Cash’s father’s 76 foot Alpha Express, with crew (cook and two boat hands) and eight guests. Cash knew most of the guests, and had given everyone a discount rate for this, the first official luxury charter cruise of the “Lily Pad”.

When the trouble started, Cash thought, “What would Marcus do?” and promptly fired a boat hand for stealing drinks, flirting with Mr Jessop’s girlfriend, and stealing tissue-wrapped luxury soaps from the women’s washroom. Firing someone at sea is rarely a good move. The other boat hand withdrew his services in protest, and since he had also been drinking heavily. Cash regretted not hiring his father’s usual crew. These guys were friends of friends, and agreed to a cut in pay for the maiden voyage. Would he still have to pay them? What would Marcus do?

Then Mr Jessop’s girlfriend went a shade of green and broke out in hives. The cook had forgotten she was allergic to shellfish. Cash fired the cook. They would need to return to port immediately.

Most of the guests, cocktails in hand, departed the “Lily Pad” without negative comments. Mr Jessop was livid, however, and demanded not only a comped cruise but a voucher for future cruises. Cash wondered: if the experience was so bad, why would he want another one? But he hand-wrote a voucher anyway, planning to never honour it as he couldn’t see himself continuing in this line of work without a partner.

Mr Jessop’s girlfriend was a woman named Diane Crosby. She was a college student, studying law, who lost her scholarship, and so was accompanying men like Mr Jessop on luxury cruises and what-not. She was used to people forgetting her name, or asking her to put her bikini on, or standing far too close, or ignoring her completely. She was almost relieved about the food poisoning, although it was the sickest she had ever been. She really, really did not like Mr Jessop, nor any of his friends, and certainly not that young asshole who was in everyone’s face, pushing drinks.

A hospital bed and an IV seemed preferable, to Diane Crosby.

Slow Motion

Prompt: Disaster

Carton of eggs. one dozen

He was in the supermarket when it happened. It was early in the morning, and the market had just opened its doors. He only needed bread and eggs, which he could store in the fridge at work until the end of his shift. He wanted to get home right away after work and make things right. He waved to Mrs Smithers, his neighbour, who was cheerfully pushing a trolley filled with toilet tissue. Only yesterday she had brought him a jar of her apricot jelly. It was usually just a little too sweet, he thought, but it was such a kind gesture.

First, he noticed a rumbling, as if a subway train was running underground directly beneath him; but there was no train, no subway. The structure– the floors and walls– then actually quivered, violently, and Damien lost his footing. Someone screamed. It sounded like the young cashier, Denise.

The floor was liquid beneath his feet. Cereals, cans of fruit, cases of soft drinks flew off the shelves: they flew as if there was no gravity, careening across aisles and thudding into the store manager, who was trying to run outside. Lights and generators shut off.

He frantically reached for his phone. There was a loud crash and then Mrs Smithers smashed into him, knocking the phone out of his hand. She had blood running out of her nose.

In slow motion he crawled on his hands and knees, as plaster and chunks of wallboard rained upon his shoulders. Something sharp lodged in the back of his neck. He felt the wetness on his back, but no pain.

Somehow he reached the phone and punched in the number.

He smelled smoke, heard someone praying, and the roof over the produce section collapsed, trapping a man and his teenage son, who only a few minutes ago had been arguing; something to do with a car.

He couldn’t see anything any more, and felt suddenly, terribly, weak, but he got through! He heard the voice on the other end of the line. “I love you,” he said, as loudly as he could, and then collapsed into the broken glass and rubble.

Disaster averted.

 


  • Image by Corbis